[Further disclaimer: The rights to Escaflowne belong to several people and legal entities; I am not one of them]
[Note: Constructive criticism, flames, nice little notes ™ appreciated, but not mandatory.
This is not quite what I expected to write, but I managed to keep it from the citrus it was trying to become. Yay for me and will power. Though I endorse well-written Folken smut, just not with his brother.]
Fallen"You should continue to rest, Folken-sama," Sora whispered softly, "if your plans are to be fulfilled as soon as you say."
A wry smile shaped his lips into an upward turning line. "So maternal."
Her customary frown deepened at his words, but there was no immediate cause for concern; his head stayed concealed beneath the dark material of his cloak. Cautious in tune and volume, she again took to the solace of her sorrowful music. She could do very little to influence Folken's actions concerning others, but his mood could be swayed nominally if he allowed it.
Folken was as sensible or irrational as he preferred and though his inclinations had become steadily honed by his unending hatred, he found Sora amused him even as she was useful to him. She was hardly like the wretch, Dilandau, who still had all the mannerisms of a wild dog barking beneath the surface of his skin.
Dilandau was only just a little better than useless, which was worse for the training dedicated to him over the years since he'd been brought back to civilization. Sora had come to Folken fully into her abilities and hampered only by a sense of ethics he'd found easily overridden. He never cared to ask why she did as he commanded of her; he understood she would not betray him and that made her eligible to attend him at all times. With this understanding in mind he closed his eyes to the moonlight illuminating the room from the window at his back and allowed Sora to pull a blanket of sleep over his consciousness.
His dreams were not unlike his thoughts, if his mind were not so active, even in slumber to have them. When he did have them they were screened in darkness with flashes of fire and blood to illuminate the edges. There were times when his dreams were no more restful than the daily exertions his leadership required.
This night was like numerous others when the head of the Black Dragon clan found himself in the undisciplined realm of dreams. He far preferred the oblivion of sleep than those nights when thoughts and memory thrashed in his mind like a freshly decapitated snake.
There were disturbing visions of figures made of levistone, which continually exerted such force that nothing could come near. Of a mother made entirely of water, who splashed to the ground when touched. Scenes from the past, awash with steaming blood and crushed bones, came to him. They did not horrify him, only remind him of the injustice visited on him in his late teenage years. He'd done what had to be done; there was nothing to regret.
Though, it was when he saw the little boy with his mewling sidekick from Adom village that his whole body felt ripped raw. The little boy, too young to be adorned with the traditional pigments of his people, would paint his arms and hands with clay. Always the same designs as placed under his older brother's skin. Always the delighted laughter and open arms and running feet.
It inspired such rage in Folken. The smiling little boy, panting hard, with adoring brown eyes and begging words from his dirty face. "Oni-chan! Show me your wings again! Show me your wings!"
The little boy had no idea that he would grow up only to betray his older brother's trust for power and greed. Folken hated the boy for that, for always asking to see his great white wings. The child only made demands on him; there was never any giving.
"You want to see my wings?" He asked the boy, an expression of informed disgust slightly twisting his lips. He felt something momentous coming to him, something profound and deeply disturbing. Trusting his rage, he succumbed to angry instinct.
"Please! Please!" The little boy shouted, clapping hands. A cloud from the drying clay powdered the air with the boy's ecstatic movements.
Without a moment's hesitation, Folken threw aside his shirt and clenched his fists before him. A small realization whispered that his little brother never understood how much it hurt to produce the wings. He didn't really care, his anger answered, the child would learn, the child would never forget. Gathering his will to him, he called the wings.
Their wings blossomed from buds of exquisite agony. The first time he'd grown them he'd nearly passed out. The first time the child had grown them he'd stayed awake almost two days in order to keep them from receding, desperate to avoid having to call them again.
When the tremendously light, yet massive wings tore up through his flesh, Folken growled with the pain. The boy squealed in glee and jumped up and down. However, the show was not done yet.
"You want them so badly," Folken ground out between clenched teeth, "why don't you have them?"
It was as if he'd never done the deed. Hands made strong in wilderness and on the hilt of a sword reached back over his shoulders and gripped his wings as near to the base as possible. It was an awkward position, but no act of destruction was beyond hatred as vital as that fueling him.
The pain was blinding, the child's screaming went almost unheard, the wet ripping flooded his back with warm moisture. Blood rushed down the gully of his spine and across the ripple of his ribs. The pain increased, the volume of the boy's screams competed with the sound of tearing flesh, popping cartilage, cracking bone.
But he still heard the words. "Oni-chan! Oni-chan! Please don't! Please don't hurt! I'm sorry! I'll never ask again! Please! I'm sorry! Stop!"
Sora continued to sing forgiveness into her song as Folken slept. It wasn't easy to manipulate him, but he had allowed her to bring sleep and she took what chances she could. She dared hope for progress if she could make him see his brother's pain.
When his fingers began to twitch, she knew he was fighting it and pressed harder. Her voice raised to a higher volume than anyone, save Folken, had ever witnessed in Gaia.
Outside the massive double doors, the assembled honor guard's discipline melted enough that one quietly whispered out of turn that Folken was a lucky man. Not only did the rest of guard agree as they listened to the beautiful song, but they forgave him for breaking their strict silence.
The song died on her lips when Folken's head jerked back suddenly and impacted solidly with the window. Despite the awkwardness of her gown, she left the dragon skeleton disc she habitually stood on and rushed to his side.
Folken was disoriented. He saw nothing but blackness, felt only raw pain, and heard nothing. The oblivion he searched for was not as he expected; he still retained a sense of self and, moreover, memories.
When Sora slid the dark cowl from his head, things came sharply back into focus. His unevenly colored eyes focused on the pale figure before him, communicating very little as his momentary confusion shifted seamlessly into calculations. His back, more specifically the areas surrounding his scapula, was in fiery, familiar agony.
Ignoring Sora, he concentrated for a moment and willed, as he hadn't for a few years, his wings to recede. In a blind rage, he had ripped them from his body with his own hands and when the wounds left almost immediately, he had assumed he'd seen the last of either. Now he understood better. When he willed the wounds away, he no longer felt their pain.
Finishing what Sora began, he stood and pulled the cloak from him. It was heavy with blood. Behind him the floor and window were similarly marked.
"Folken-sama…"
Her voice was uncharacteristically unsteady. Folken turned his head to observe whether or not her face matched her tone. Her eyes, the color of burnished gold, were transfixed by the darkening blood dripping down the window, pooling where he sat, and the smaller puddles left in his wake.
"I was singing to soothe," she murmured in honest perplexity.
He wasn't completely convinced she hadn't tried to do more than what she seemed to say, but he knew she would always stand by him, so he allowed himself to believe her. "As you say. Perhaps you were out of tune."
She returned his gaze slowly enough to indicate that she found his words harsh, but would not speak against him. "I will call for medication."
He raised a hand to halt her. "No, there is no need."
"And yet," she responded in concern, looking again at the crimson streaks on the glass. "And yet this blood…"
"This blood," he echoed, now staring straight into her eyes with his own discomforting gaze, "will end with the rest of the world's suffering. When the Winged Goddess joins with me."
Sora looked away from Folken's gaze, knowing her heart was heavy with the weight of what was to come.